VIDA. [_To_ CYNTHIA.] My dear, I'm sorry to tell you your husband--I mean, my husband--I mean Philip--he's asking for you over the 'phone. You must have said you were coming here. Of course, I told him you were not here, and hung up. BENSON. [_Entering hurriedly and at once moving to_ VIDA.] Ma'am, the new footman's been talking with Mr. Phillimore on the wire. [VIDA, _gesture of regret._] He told Mr. Phillimore that his lady was here, and, if I can believe my ears, ma'am, he's got Sir Wilfrid on the 'phone now! SIR WILFRID. [_Making his appearance, perplexed and annoyed._] I say, y' know--extraordinary country; that old chap, Phillimore, he's been damned impertinent over the wire! Says I've run off with Mrs. Karslake--talks about "Louise!" Now, who the dooce is Louise? He's comin' round here, too--I said Mrs. Karslake wasn't here-- [_Seeing_ CYNTHIA.] Hello! Good job! What a liar I am! BENSON. [_Coming to the door. To_ VIDA.] Mr. Fiddler, ma'am, says the mare is gettin' very restive. [JOHN _hears this and moves at once_. BENSON _withdraws._ JOHN. [_To_ VIDA.] If that mare's restive, she'll break out in a rash. VIDA. [_To_ JOHN.] Will you take me? JOHN. Of course. [_They go to the door._ CYNTHIA. [_To_ JOHN.] Tata, old man! Meet you at the altar! If I don't, the mare's mine! [SIR WILFRID _looks at her amazed._ VIDA. [_To_ CYNTHIA.] Do the honours, dear, in my absence! JOHN. Come along, come along, never mind them! A horse is a horse! JOHN _and_ VIDA _go out gaily and in haste. At the same moment_ CYNTHIA _drinks what she supposes to be her glass of plain soda. As it is whiskey straight, she is seized with astonishment and a fit of coughing._ SIR WILFRID _relieves her of the glass._ SIR WILFRID. [_Indicating the contents of the glass._] I say, do you ordinarily take it as high up--as seven fingers and two thumbs. CYNTHIA. [_Coughing._] Jack poured it out. Just shows how groggy he was! And now, Sir Wilfrid-- [_She gets her things to go._ SIR WILFRID. Oh, you can't go! [BROOKS _appears at the door._ CYNTHIA. I am to be married at three. SIR WILFRID. Let him wait. [_Aside to_ BROOKS, _whom he meets near the door._] If Mr. Phillimore comes, bring his card up. BROOKS. [_Going._] Yes, Sir Wilfrid. SIR WILFRID. To me! [_Tipping him._ BROOKS. [_Bowing._] To you, Sir Wilfrid. [BROOKS _goes._ SIR WILFRID. [_Returning to_ CYNTHIA.] I've got to have my innings, y' know! [_Looking at her more closely._] I say, you've been crying!-- CYNTHIA. King William! SIR WILFRID. You _are_ crying! Poor little gal! CYNTHIA. [_Tears in her eyes._] I feel all shaken and cold. [BROOKS _returns with a card._ SIR WILFRID. [_Astonished and sympathetic._] Poor little gal. CYNTHIA. [_Her eyes wet._] I didn't sleep a wink last night. [_With disgust._] Oh, what is the matter with me?